


Familiar

by tastewithouttalent



Category: The Road to El Dorado (2000)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Inline with canon, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3932428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Worry feels very far away, as far away as everything else, and Miguel is pushing his shirt up and breathing hot over his stomach and hey, it’s not like Tulio’s about to argue with that." Miguel is a constant point of familiarity even when the rest of Tulio's world won't stop spinning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiar

Tulio can’t get his vision to clear.

He’s not even sure it ever  _was_  clear, to be honest. Everything’s pretty hazy right about now; he can taste fruit-sweet at the back of his tongue when he hiccups, which is often, in some undefined sense of time passing. He can still see stars spiraling over him, too, which is a little worrying since he thinks they’re back inside the weird...tent...cart...thing that is apparently what gods sleep in. But worry feels very far away, as far away as everything else, and Miguel is pushing his shirt up and breathing hot over his stomach and hey, it’s not like Tulio’s about to argue with that.

“They’re very nice people,” he slurs to the ceiling as friction presses over his hips. It’s probably Miguel’s hands, since it lacks the damp slide of his tongue, but Tulio doesn’t lift his head to try to see; it’s not like his vision will be a lot of help to him right now. “People? Followers? What’re people that think you’re a god called?”

“Worshippers,” Miguel offers helpfully.

“Right!” Tulio snaps his fingers, points at the shaking roof overhead. “Worshippers. Nice. Nice worshippers.” His pants go slack as the ties give way; there are hands at his stomach, pushing down against his skin, and he’s never been very ticklish but he’s still flinching away, wiggling sideways with a high skitter of panic in his throat he can’t try to control.

“You’re moving too much,” Miguel’s voice comes, clear and weirdly loud, like it’s the only thing to cut past the ringing in Tulio’s ears. “Can’t you hold still for a minute?”

“You’re  _tickling_  me,” Tulio protests, but Miguel’s stopping moving his hands and that helps steady the prickle of sensation under his skin. He falls back to the tangle of blankets under them, catches at air while he tries to fight back the whirl of dizziness in his head. There’s heat again, a flare of air far warmer than even the jungle-heavy humidity around them, and then Miguel’s mouth is slick against his cock and Tulio is groaning like it’s been startled out of him.

“ _Hey_.” He tries to sit up, fails, falls back to the blankets. Miguel’s mouth is warm and wet, friction slicked away by the damp on his tongue, and there’s heat sliding up Tulio’s spine, pleasure collecting in his blood when he reaches out to grab at Miguel’s hair. He hadn’t even realized he was hard. “Woah, what are you doing?”

Miguel tightens his lips, pulls away with enough suction that there’s an audible sound as his mouth comes free. Tulio cranes his head to try to see Miguel’s face; even with one eye shut, he has trouble tracking him for more than the span of heartbeats.

“I’m blowing you, Tulio.” Miguel sounds steadier than Tulio feels. This attempt at composure would be more convincing if he weren’t swaying where he’s reclining; then again, Tulio isn’t one hundred percent sure that’s not his own vision veering dizzily from side to side. “Just how drunk are you?”

Tulio heaves a sigh, drops back to the blankets. “That’s not what I  _mean_ ,” he whines. “I  _am_  drunk, I’m not even sure we can get anywhere with this.”

“Well you’ve made a good start of it,” Miguel points out reasonably. “But if you don’t want to continue…”

“That is  _not_  what I said,” Tulio protests. “When did I say that?”

“Just now.”

“What?” Tulio reels back through the shadows of the recent past, memories floating to the surface as he reaches for them. “I did  _not_. I asked what you were  _doing_ , that is  _nothing_  like telling you to stop.”

“It has  _implications_ of--”

“No, no, I never said stop, did I say stop? No I did not,” Tulio answers on Miguel’s behalf. “I just mean what’s wrong with your hands?”

“I thought I’d try something new,” Miguel pouts from the vicinity of Tulio’s hips. He huffs a sigh, shifts his weight up over the blankets, and then they’re at eye-level. He’s still swaying. Tulio’s pretty sure now it’s his own vision that’s the problem. “I can’t believe you don’t want a blowjob.”

“It’s not that I  _don’t_ want a blowjob,” Tulio corrects. Miguel’s fingers fit under the opened edge of his pants, musician’s calluses dragging over him and weighting over his eyelids. “It’s a matter of relative value.”

“Excuse  _me_ ,” Miguel says, his voice dipping into the range of pretended offense Tulio knows from years of cons successful and otherwise. “Are you impugning my  _skill_?”

Tulio laughs. It’s easy to find the amusement with his veins hot with intoxication and Miguel’s fingers tightening around him to pour more out into him. “I’m  _complimenting_  your skill. With your hands.”

Friction drags up, Miguel’s thumb slipping out over him, and Tulio shudders, boneless with warmth and careless comfort as Miguel’s laugh catches at the corner of his mouth. “You could talk your way out of anything, I think.”

“Yeah,” Tulio agrees, grinning sideways and turning in to reach for the tangle of Miguel’s sun-yellow hair. “You’re better with your hands than with your mouth.”

“Yes, well.” Miguel’s smiling, Tulio doesn’t need his vision to clear to be able to hear the laugh pushing at the back of the other’s tongue. “You smell like alcohol.”

“So do you,” Tulio responds, and they both lean in at once, the sharp edge of his grin coming in against the soft curve of Miguel’s smile and fitting together as well as they ever have. Miguel whines some unintelligible noise and Tulio purrs satisfaction, makes a fist of the other’s hair to hold him steady while he licks the fruit-sweet burn of the alcohol off Miguel’s tongue. He’s careful about it, thorough and quick with his movements, and Miguel is slower with his mouth but quick with his hands, twisting his wrist and shifting his fingers with a dexterity Tulio has learned to appreciate far more than the clumsier rhythm of his own hand. It makes him think of music, like Miguel is seeing notes in his head and playing Tulio as effectively, and that’s funny in some way he can’t define but the laughter doesn’t interrupt the twist of pleasure up his spine. It just thrums through him, vibration falling into harmony with the drag of Miguel’s fingers up over him, and he’s still laughing when the friction goes taut into promise, collapses in on itself and washes out his attention into shuddering satisfaction.

It feels like it lasts forever, he’s certain every jolt of sensation will be the last before it gives way to yet another. Finally it’s Tulio who has to push Miguel’s hand aside, fall back to tremble against the blankets and wait for his sense of self to return before he can wrap his tongue around words again.

“Tulio.” A whine, that, a little strained and a lot desperate, like maybe Miguel’s been repeating himself for a while. “Tulio, don’t fall asleep.”

“‘M not asleep,” Tulio protests, but that  _is_  a good idea, one of the best he’s heard in a while. If he just holds still for another few moments…

“ _Tulio_ ,” and a hand is at his shoulder, shaking him back into consciousness. “We’re supposed to be  _partners_.”

“Don’t you  _trust_  me?” Tulio asks, then ruins the attempt at a joke by barking a laugh before Miguel even has time to get traction on a response. “Yeah, yeah, fine.” When he rolls over sideways he ends up half on top of Miguel instead of the blankets, grabs against the other’s hip to brace himself as he wiggles himself down.

“Are you sure  _you’re_  not too drunk?” he asks as he fumbles inelegantly at Miguel’s pants. It’s mostly rhetorical, when he can feel how hard Miguel is even with the fabric still between them, but the sound of protest Miguel makes is cute, makes Tulio grin against the other’s leg where he can’t be seen.

“I’m completely fine,” Miguel insists as Tulio’s fingers drag his clothes open. “I bet I’m more sober than y _-ah_!” His voice cracks into a plaintive whimper as Tulio licks up against him, hips rocking up to push instinctively for more. Luckily Tulio knows this tendency, has his hands fixed hard and bracing against Miguel’s body to pin him down, and the only real effect the motion has is to send a flutter of reaction through the other’s body.

“You  _could_  give me some warning,” Miguel protests. It makes Tulio grin, spill a laugh up his throat before he can control his expression enough to duck back in and take Miguel’s cock in past his lips. He tastes of salt, smells like the sugar in whatever they were drinking; the two cloud together in Tulio’s mind, blur his already dizzy vision and keep his blood hot and radiant in his veins even in the aftereffects of pleasure. He doesn’t need sobriety to know what Miguel likes; it’s clear in the catch of his breathing and his fingers grabbing at Tulio’s hair, even if he didn’t have years-worth of familiarity to guide him. It’s nice to have that habit to guide him, to push back the weird of damp heat in the air and the impossible soft of the unknown fabrics beneath them. But Miguel is real, as responsive as he ever is, and the thought is enough to make Tulio smile, to push back the weight of their surroundings until it’s just the two of them, like it always is.

It only feels like it takes a few minutes, though for all Tulio knows it could have been an hour between when he licks the first salt off Miguel’s skin and when the other is groaning into orgasm against the slide of his tongue and the drag of his lips. It makes Tulio’s head spin, the bitter salt spill against his mouth, and it lingers even after he’s pulled back and swallowed his mouth clean again.

“Tulio,” Miguel says, slow and slurring, fingers digging into the loose fabric of Tulio’s shirt. “Come on, come here.” Tulio lets himself be pulled, dragged back up over the blankets as much by Miguel’s force as by his own will, and there’s a kiss waiting for him, sloppy and warm and sweet as the sugar long since faded from Miguel’s lips. They both stay there for a minute, Tulio licking against Miguel’s mouth and Miguel clinging to his shoulder and humming almost-tuneful encouragement; then there’s another wave of dizziness, intoxication joining forces with satisfaction, and this time Tulio doesn’t have the will to push it aside. The darkness of exhaustion closes in, blotting out the weight of unknown perfumes in the air and the texture of the sheets under them, until the last thing Tulio knows is the familiar catch of Miguel’s hair at his mouth and the usual pressure of Miguel’s arm looped around his waist.


End file.
